Dead But Not Forgotten (10 page)

Once I had the scent clear in my head, it was time to go hunting. If the witch hadn't been local, I'd have been out of luck, but I was betting that any witch who came to Merlotte's over and over again had to be in Bon Temps. So I ran up and down all the streets in town, one by one. It was nearly ten by the time I caught the scent in a cheesy split-level house with yellow vinyl siding at the end of a cul-de-sac.

The name was on the mailbox, so I used my smartphone to access Uncle Desmond's private database of info about supes. It gave me everything I needed to know about Ms. Marietta Singleton.

There were no lights on in the house, but I rang the doorbell until I heard somebody stomping down the stairs. I'd have picked the lock, but I figured a witch might have house protection spells so nobody could screw her the way she'd screwed Sam. Marietta opened the door only as wide as the door chain allowed. “Who's there?”

“I need a witch.”

She cursed under her breath, but it was the four-letter-word kind, not the turn-me-into-a-toad kind. “It's Christmas Eve.”

“I know—I want to buy somebody a spell for Christmas.”

“Right now?”

“Well, duh. Santa Claus comes tonight.”

“It's going to cost double.”

“So?” I said, as if I didn't care. Which I didn't, since it was Uncle Desmond's money.

She started to unhook the chain. “Just so you know, I've got protection spells that'll blast you to dust if you so much as pull my hair.”

“Understood.”

Marietta was dinky, but that didn't mean she didn't pack a nasty punch, spellwise. According to the database she was in her thirties, but she looked younger in the cutesy-poo flannel sleep pants with kitty cats on them and an oversized T-shirt with still more kitty cats.

“Come into my consulting room,” she said.

She'd converted a spare bedroom into what looked like a low-rent doctor's office, complete with flimsy wood paneling and beige shag carpeting. Beige! It was a good thing she had those spells to protect it all—I wanted to rip it up to keep from having to walk on it.

She handed me a pen and a clipboard with a piece of paper already on it. “If you'll just fill out this form.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“This is how I work. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.” I grabbed the thing, read the form, and in the section that said
Service required—be specific and use back of form if needed
, I wrote,
TAKE ALL THE CURSES OFF OF MERLOTTE'S NOW
. Then I handed it back to her.

As soon as she saw that, I could feel her starting to pull magic to herself. So I said, “I work for Desmond Cataliades.”

She knew the name, and she paused, but started up again.

“I'm his niece.” And I smiled. My teeth aren't as sharp as an elf's, but they're sharp enough to show which side of the family I'm on.

That stopped her. For one, everybody who knows anything about Uncle Desmond knows that he takes vengeance very seriously, and for another, spells don't always work right on demons.

“I didn't know Merlotte's was under Cataliades's protection,” she whined.

“Now you know. I want every single spell, hex, curse, or hidden talisman taken off. Tonight.”

“It's not that simple. I signed a contract to keep those spells maintained for six months. A blood contract.”

“Then I'll get the contract canceled. Who's the client?”

She looked prissy. “I guarantee confidentiality.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a knife with a serrated edge that Uncle Desmond had given me and smiled again.

“I can't tell you,” she stammered. “Confidentiality is part of the contract.”

Crapcrapandmorecrap. Even if I tortured her, she wouldn't be able to tell me. I could have called Uncle Desmond and asked him what to do, but when he gives me an assignment, he expects me to carry it out. He doesn't get mad often, but when he does . . . Hoo boy.

Who had it in for Sam, anyway? Sure, there'd been trouble when the shifters and weres first came out, but that was old news. Besides, if it had been any kind of human motive, Sookie would have winkled it out with her telepathy. That made it a supe, but then what? I knew for a fact Sam wasn't in the local were pack, but he had good connections with it. The local vampires left him alone because Sheriff Ravenscroft had told them to. Another witch would have cast the spells herself and not hired Marietta. Who did that leave, and how could I get any more information out of the witch when she was bound by a blood contract?

Blood contracts were powerful—both parties had to sign in blood and the penalties for breaking them usually meant a lot more blood. The only way to break a blood contract was for both parties to agree or for both of them to die. I didn't have a big problem with killing Marietta after eating that awful cheeseburger, but I wasn't sure I could work around all her protection spells and I didn't know who the other party was. But I had an idea.

“Hey, a blood contract can't be done over the phone or the web, can it?”

“Of course not.”

“So that means your client came here?”

She nodded slowly, as if she weren't sure if the contract would stop her.

“Into this office.”

She nodded again.

“Then don't move, don't cast any spells, don't call anybody, don't text anybody.” Then, because it was Christmas Eve, I said, “You can take a nap if you want.” I didn't expect her to take me up on it, but at least I'd made the gesture.

Sookie had said Sam got sick around Thanksgiving, which meant Marietta's client been at that house less than a month earlier. So I was hoping that the witch wasn't a very good housekeeper and that she hadn't had a holiday rush of clients needing spells. I started sniffing my way through the office, starting with the guest chairs, then going down the hall to the front door and even onto the front stoop. There was something, something kinda familiar, but I couldn't get enough to ID it.

I went back to the office and saw that Marietta hadn't moved, which was a good thing for her front teeth. I was trying to think of a question she'd be able to answer when she asked me one. “Do you need to go to the bathroom? I keep one just for clients. It's the first door on the right.”

“Marietta, you are officially forgiven for this carpet. And the sleep pants, too.” I went to a door I'd gone past before and went into the bathroom. The first thing I noticed was that I'd forgiven her a minute too soon. The bathroom was in beige—even the toilet was beige. The second was a scent that was entirely too familiar.

I grinned and went back to the office. “I'm going to go now and make a phone call. A little while after that, you're going to get a call from your client, and she is going to tell you to cancel your blood contract. You can do that part over the phone, right?”

She nodded.

“Good. As soon as that contract is canceled, I want you to go to Merlotte's and wipe all those curses clean. And throw in a heavy-duty protection spell while you're at it.”

“I have to have you here for a blood contract.”

“Don't need it, and don't need this kept confidential. In fact, I want every supe around to know that Desmond Cataliades is paying for this. You send him a bill and it'll be taken care of. Got it?”

She nodded.

I thought about offering a fist bump to seal the deal but didn't think she'd take it the right way. “I don't think it's going to take long for your client to call, so you better get dressed so you can get right to work.” I let myself out because she still hadn't moved from her chair.

I called Uncle Desmond while I ran back to Merlotte's, and even though his voice didn't change exactly, I could tell he was so mad I wouldn't have been surprised if my phone had caught fire. What I should have figured out as soon as I found all those spells is that there aren't many people who can afford to pay for that much magic. Of course Uncle Desmond could—he's rich. And so are Eudokia, Kallistrae, and Myrrine.

His daughters, who bitch about him spending time with Sookie and hate him buying her and her family presents. And right around Thanksgiving, when they were starting to plan their ball, they must have started thinking about how Uncle Desmond was going to be shopping for the Stackhouses again and they'd probably been paying attention when he'd told them Sookie was having another baby.

They'd known they couldn't do anything to Sookie directly, and Uncle Desmond would have spotted any curses put on her house the next time he went to visit. But they could sure hurt her indirectly by messing with Merlotte's. Uncle Desmond never goes there because Sam doesn't like him much.

The low-rent part was that it wasn't like the curses would kill Sam, they'd just ruin his business. They'd spent all that money just to make Sookie miserable. If it made Sam and the kids unhappy, too, all the better.

What asshats! There were a couple of choice items in my bag that I'd have loved to try out on them, but I figured Uncle Desmond would take care of that. It didn't take long, either.

I got back to my tree at Merlotte's and had only played Angry Birds for half an hour when Marietta drove up in a Honda—beige, of course. She went right to work saying words, waving stuff around, blowing smoke around. She was in the middle of a chant when I sneaked up behind her, and I waited until she was done to say, “Did you get them all?”

She screeched and jumped, which was what I'd been going for.

“That was the last,” she gasped.

“Cool. Stay here while I check.” I zipped around the building a couple of times, then picked the lock again so I could check inside. No bad smells, no sticky tables, not even a stray rat, though that was kind of disappointing.

Even though Marietta was watching for me, I got another jump-and-screech out of her when I went back. “It's clear—you're good to go.” She hopped in her car and gunned it out of there without wishing me a merry Christmas or blessed be or anything.

Uncle Desmond had told me to head for a good hotel when I was done and charge it to him, but the night was clear and the streets were empty, so I decided I'd take another shot at making a sonic boom while I had a chance.

But on the way out of town, I zipped past Sookie's house and crept up so I could peek in the window. Breaking the everlasting mild cold spell on Sam meant he already looked healthier, and Sookie and Sam were making out on the couch. They hadn't gotten all the decorations out, but they'd gotten their tree up and had it covered with shiny balls and tinsel and stuff. As for the outside lights, they were so busy with each other that they never heard a thing while I picked the lock of the shed behind the house, pulled out the lights, and got them put on the house. I plugged them in and then ran for it before they could come and see what had happened.

I was halfway home when I realized what I should have realized all along. I knew what Santa Claus had to be. That kind of power, that kind of speed, being able to figure out what people wanted.

The real Santa Claus was obviously a demon.

JEFFREY J. MARIOTTE

Jeff Mariotte contributed “Taproot,” which takes place shortly after the events that open
Living Dead in Dallas
. If you remember, Sookie has to call Andy's sister, Portia, to pick up Andy, who's had too much alcohol to drive. When Andy comes to pick up his car the next day, there's a nasty surprise inside. With Sookie and Bill out of town, it's up to Andy to figure out what's going on in Bon Temps.

—

Like most Louisiana police detectives, Andy Bellefleur made occasional trips to the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola. One of those, two autumns back, had coincided with the annual prison rodeo. The warden insisted that Andy take advantage of the timing and gave him a behind-the-scenes tour of the arena.

There, Andy had seen a bull called Bust-'em-up, a battle-scarred veteran the approximate color of fresh blacktop. Somewhere along the way, Bust-'em-up had lost the tip of its right horn and acquired a reputation for meanness. The enormous creature could barely move in the chute; frustrated, it smashed into the sides, almost dislodging from their perches the cowboys trying to help the unfortunate rider who had drawn it get settled on the animal's back. The bull stamped and snorted and kicked up clouds of dust, eyes rolling wildly in its head. The beast's only need at that moment was release: to be let into the open space of the arena, to buck the offending weight off its back, to
move
. If it happened to crush a few ribs or break a leg or tear open somebody's scalp, well, that was gravy. Mostly, it wanted to be free.

Andy felt the same way.

He was not a small man. He liked to think of his muscular heft as a professional advantage, that he came across as a solid citizen, someone the townsfolk could count on. The Honda Civic his sister, Portia, had provided—borrowed from a longtime client of her law firm, who would never have the resources to pay everything she owed—was okay for a short while, but nothing he'd want to use for long. He liked being able to stretch his legs. Belted into the small car, with the door closed, he felt more than a little claustrophobic.

Like Bust-'em-up, he just wanted out. In Andy's case, not into a rodeo arena, but into the parking lot of Merlotte's Bar and Grill.

The Honda was painted a vibrating orange color that made Andy's teeth hurt. But it was cheaper than a rental, and until his Buick was released from impound—taken because Lafayette Reynold had been found inside it, murdered, in the parking lot at Merlotte's—it would have to do.

Officially, Andy couldn't work the case. When a homicide victim turns up in your car, it doesn't matter who you are, you sit near the top of the list of suspects. He was on desk duty for the moment, which meant he was not expected to catch cases but to spend his days twiddling his thumbs in a cubicle where the air conditioner was almost as weak as the coffee. Anyway, Merlotte's was on Renard Parish turf, not inside town limits, so the Bon Temps PD wasn't directly involved in the investigation.

But unofficially, there was no way Andy was staying out of it. He was a regular at Merlotte's, where Lafayette had worked as a cook. And everyone in Bon Temps knew Lafayette. A flamboyantly gay African American man in a small northern Louisiana town might as well have been carrying around a neon sign with an arrow pointing at you and the words
LOOK AT ME
emblazoned across it every time he left his house.

Somebody had broken Lafayette's neck and sexually assaulted him. Andy knew
he
hadn't murdered anyone, and he sure hadn't messed with him, but that was all he knew. As far as he was concerned, the list of nonsuspects was one person long, and the suspect pool contained everybody else. And the fact that the body had been dumped in his car made the whole thing sort of personal.

He found some shade by a big pine, determinedly not parking in what had been his usual spot but never would be again, and disentangled himself from the car's seat belt. He was passing through the front door when three luxury SUVs and a white van pulled into the lot.

Sam Merlotte stood at the bar, enveloped by the yeasty fragrance of beer on tap. Andy usually liked the smell, but now it reminded him of the night Lafayette had died, when he had kept putting them away until they'd put him away. “Might want to raise your prices, Sam,” he said. “Some high-end vehicles parking outside.”

Sam glanced at the door. “I'll leave 'em low,” he said. “Maybe they'll tip better. In my experience, the more well-heeled someone is, the worse he tips.” He gave Andy a searching look. “How you doing, Andy?”

“Oh, you know,” Andy answered, wanting to dodge any questions about the other night before they were asked. “I'm lookin' for Sookie. She here?”

“She's off for a few days,” Sam said.

“Off? She at home?”

Sam's gaze shifted toward the front door. Maybe he was waiting for the people from those SUVs. Or maybe he was trying to avoid Andy's gaze. Andy found the latter explanation more likely. “No, she's . . . out of town. With Bill.”

Andy didn't have much patience with vampires, as a general rule, and he particularly didn't like Bill Compton. “Well, you were here that night. The night . . . you know.”

“Yeah.”

“I was just hopin' someone could tell me who all was in here that night. You know, were there any strangers around, anybody who looked nervous, anyone who just came in for a few minutes and left again? Like that.”

“I was here,” Sam said. “But I—” The front door banged open, and something like relief passed across Sam's face. “Hello,” he called out. “Welcome to Merlotte's.”

“I'm looking for Sam Merlotte,” the man at the front of the pack said. He was dressed in a cream-colored shirt that looked like silk, with French cuffs and big gold cuff links. Over that he had on a navy blue blazer. His jeans were the overpriced kind that mimicked the look you could get by buying a pair of Wranglers off the rack and dragging them behind your truck for a couple of days.

Others streamed in behind him, not quite as overdressed, but clearly not folks who bought their clothes at Tara's Togs or the Bon Temps Walmart.

“That's me,” Sam said.

“Marvelous.” The man crossed the plank floor in a few long strides, his right hand held out before him. He looked vaguely familiar. He had piercing blue eyes under a curly mop of coppery hair. His facial features appeared small, or maybe his head was just big. Mostly, Andy saw two slabs of deeply tanned cheek, blocking in a finely chiseled nose and a mouth overstocked with bright white teeth. Although the combination of parts was strange, somehow it came together in a way that wasn't unpleasant to look at.

The man had reached the bar and gripped Sam's hand by the time Andy realized who it was. “Hey,” he said. “You're—”

“Tristan Kowel, Mr. Merlotte,” the man said, ignoring Andy. “
Delighted
to meet you. You've got a lot of fans on the coast. A
lot
of fans.”

“Portia watches your show,” Andy said. “My sister. Portia.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. . . . Kowel, is it?” Sam said. “Fans?”

“He's got a show,” Andy said. “On the Food Network.
Burgers and Beer
, isn't that it?”

“Triple B,” Kowel said. “
Burgers, Beer, and Bar-B-Q
. We spotlight the best bar-and-grill establishments from coast to coast.”

“Portia loves it.”

“I'm still not clear on—” Sam began.

“We're
thrilled
that you've given us approval to shoot here,” Kowel said. He didn't seem like a guy who listened much. If at all.

“I don't remember giving anybody—”

“You'll hardly know we're here.” Kowel executed a spin that Andy thought might be most accurately labeled a pirouette. “Of course, we'll touch the place up some. Charmingly rustic, isn't it?”

“Touch the place—?” Sam began.

“What do you think, Bradley?” Kowel asked. “Bradley Millham is our set decorator. He's a big fan, Mr. Merlotte. Sam. I can call you Sam, right? It's like I've known you forever.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “Everybody calls me Sam. But I—”

“Bradley?” Kowel said. He swept an arm toward the back bar. “What do you think? Does it all have to go, or can you work with it?”

Kowel's voice filled the cavernous interior of Merlotte's, almost empty in the hours between the breakfast and lunch rushes. Bradley, on the other hand, was so quiet Andy had to strain to hear.

“I think . . .” he said. “I think some of it isn't too awful. You know, considering.”

“Considering what?” Sam asked.

“You know, the point of the series isn't to present stylish bistros. We like our featured locations to be rough around the edges. We'll have to do some work, to establish some sense of realism, but—”

“What do you mean, realism?” Sam said. “My place is plenty real!”

“It's
real
,” Kowel assured him. “But it's not
reality
real.” Sam sputtered something, but Kowel just kept talking. “Don't worry, Bradley is the best there is. You'll love what he comes up with.”

“Listen,” Sam said. “I'm not sure I want this place—”

Kowel raised a hand to silence him. To Andy's surprise, it worked. “Trust us, Sam. We do this all the time. The publicity value alone will be enormous—you literally cannot buy this kind of advertising. And our location fee should help you overcome any minor qualms.”

“Location fee?”

“It was covered in the agreement we sent you. Casey-Lynn?”

A female voice called out from the throng milling near the doorway, and Andy's head spun around as if mounted on ball bearings. “Yes, Tris?” she said.

“You did cover Mr. Merlotte's location fee in the agreement, correcto?”

“I'm sure I did.” Casey-Lynn stepped toward him.

Andy couldn't hold his mouth closed. “Casey-Lynn Jennings?”

“Why, Andrew Bellefleur,” she said, stopping short. “It really is you, isn't it?”

“I think so. I mean, it was last I looked. Oh, hell, that don't make any sense.”

“Then it's you, all right.”

Casey-Lynn moved into Andy's arms, which he hadn't even realized he had spread. She wrapped her considerably more slender arms around him and squeezed. Her grip was tighter than the Honda's, and far more pleasant.

“Casey-Lynn,” Kowel said, stretching out the
nn
until it was its own syllable.

“He sounds impatient,” Andy said. His arms had closed around her, and he didn't feel inclined to let go.

“Always,” Casey-Lynn whispered. She eased herself from Andy's grasp, one hand lingering on his arm. “Yes, Tris, we covered that.” She took her hand away, though Andy could still feel its warmth, and dug into a cloth bag hanging from her shoulder. “I have a copy of the agreement right here,” she said, withdrawing a pink file folder.

As she carried it to the bar, Andy found himself wondering if it was actually a pink manila folder, or if “manila” was the color. Manila was a city in the Philippines, he knew, but that didn't help. He was, he realized, thinking absurd thoughts to keep from staring at her behind as she leaned on the bar. That behind was a little fuller than it had been in high school, but no less shapely for that. Which was the last time Andy had seen Casey-Lynn Jennings, though not the last time he'd thought about her.

A girl like her—a woman, now—didn't come into a guy's life every day. She could disappear in a flash, he had learned, but that didn't mean she was easily forgotten.

While he stood there, his mind reeling with Casey-Lynn's sudden, unannounced reappearance in Bon Temps, the rest of Kowel's crew got busy. Most were young, all lean and polished, and even the ones wearing T-shirts and ragged jeans wore obviously high-priced T-shirts and ragged jeans. Men and women bustled around Merlotte's, bringing in what looked like enough gear to build a bar from scratch if they'd wanted to. A couple went into the kitchen, where days earlier Lafayette might have been working. Today Andy's cousin Terry objected loudly to the intrusion. One bearded guy with rectangular, heavy-framed glasses held his hands in front of his face and peered through the square hole they made. Another guy, with a heavier beard but thinner glasses, was counting electrical outlets and handling power cords as if he could intuit from the weight what events might have occurred in their vicinity in the past.

If he could, that might be a better trick than Sookie Stackhouse's.

A gentle hand on his shoulder let him know that Casey-Lynn was finished with Sam. “I'll be in town a few days, Andy,” she said. She had lost all but a trace of her Louisiana accent. “Busy, but I should have some time to myself. I hope we can get together. You know, talk about old times.”

“Yeah. Uhh, yeah, okay, sure.” Andy fumbled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “My numbers are on there. Call whenever.”